


The Immortal Database

by Sylviavolk2000



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-02 23:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 17,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8687419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylviavolk2000/pseuds/Sylviavolk2000
Summary: Imagine the usual disclaimer. No fiction was harmed in the making of this story; it was merely rendered transformative.





	1. Marc, perplexed

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine the usual disclaimer. No fiction was harmed in the making of this story; it was merely rendered transformative.

He found the computer disk behind a shelf of Winston Churchill, in the back room of Shakespeare & Co.

It was covered with a dusting of fallen plaster, leaning askew against the cracked foundation wall of the old building; it was the last thing he should have found. Marc fished it out, shook it off, and sneezed as the air filled with dust. It was only a floppy disk. Plain and black. Unlabeled. And he didn't think much about it then, because Shakespeare & Co. had converted to cyber-bookstore several months previously, and stray floppies were always turning up - there were floppies all over the place.

It probably belonged to the owner, M. Pierson.

Well, that was Pierson's problem, and he hadn't been around for weeks, anyway.

Marc had been working at the bookstore for over a year, and he had a low opinion of his employer. The man was always daydreaming, was prone to vanishing without notice and popping up again just as suddenly, and half the time he seemed to be muttering to himself in tongues. Only, once or twice, Marc had seen his gaze sharpen disconcertingly, and then M. Pierson would seem to spear him with a glance and read every thought in his head ...

Most likely it was only an inventory-backup disk anyway.

The shop was empty. Marc shook the disk till it rattled, walked into the front room, booted up a computer, and shoved the disk into the A: drive.

Then he called up its icon on My Computer, highlighted it, and clicked enter.

WATCHER IMMORTAL DATABASE

He tried again.

WATCHER IMMORTAL DATABASE

And again.

WATCHER IMMORTAL DATABASE

Then he noticed the small, inconspicuous link, and clicked it.


	2. Jack the Ripper

 

 

Voila!

. . . but what was this?

An index of files, each file labeled with a name. Men’s names, women’s, of every ethnicity (and some Marc couldn’t even recognize), all unfamiliar to Marc, all ridiculous. Might as well have come out of a roleplaying game for all the sense that they made. A few had pictures appended, but not many; most were dated from eras before photography. They were cross-referenced. They were annotated. He went back to the index and scrolled, perplexed. Kristin Gilles, Kay Murdstone, the Kurgan, Siah-sek … not that Marc cared.

No, wait. He noticed one file labeled Report on the Whitechapel Affair (Jack the Ripper).

He clicked on it.

 

 

**Report from the Tribunal**  
**June 7 2002**  
**Re: Whitechapel Trio Affair**

  

  
**From the Journals of Kay Murdstone**  
**December 1908 (found by Watcher Research, Oct. 1998)**

  
**"Hate and perversion festering all over Whitechapel tonight, the whole place reeks of misery and prostitute women forced to sell their bodies because of men's hypocrisy and sexual inhibitions. Their fear and contempt of women is overwhelming.**  
**My boy was here twenty years ago, my Jack. My pride and joy.**  
**Such a shame he became mad. I thought our immortality saved us from syphilis and diseases contracted though pre-immortality.**  
**Maybe Connor did him a favor, after all. But I have to pity the Scotsman - taking that quickening in, drenching his own psyche with Bloody Jack's filth. If only there had been a way to save my boy!**  
**Yes, I was right to deny my own first impulse and spare Connor his head.**  
**He saved me from having to take the head myself. Still, my heart cannot forgive. It is unjust, but if I was faced with Connor today ... I would strike to destroy. And that after twenty years of reflection.**  
**Twenty years. London has been my darling's grave-plot, his holy ground upon which no other immortal dares trespass. Well, it's been long enough. Let my mourning end! I will allow my kind to walk upon his grave once more.**  
**This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face."**

 

**With these newly deciphered words, the immortal Kay Murdstone opens a window upon the identity of Jack the Ripper and we, the Watchers, must hide away the key to another of history's puzzles. It has long been known to us that the place and time associated with the legendary killer - Whitechapel, August through November, 1888 - are also notorious for immortal activity. During those brief four months, no less than twenty-one immortals converged on Whitechapel and were observed hunting the district's streets and alleys nightly. Though they met frequently in sites suitable to the challenge - though several of them are known by us to be mortal enemies - no challenges or beheadings took place. Ten of the twenty-one had never been previously observed by any Watcher, and three of the ten remain unidentified to this day and have been recorded in the Chronicles as such: the enigmatic Jane Does I, II, and III. Their complete activities were not recorded by our Watcher teams, which were then woefully undermanned and (one suspects) out of their depth. Except for Maple White, these immortals were old and wily, and the Jane Does in particular had all the hallmarks of ancient origin.**

**Two days after the final Ripper murder, the Whitechapel immortals dispersed to the four quarters of the earth. More than that, London emptied of immortals, and remained empty for almost twenty years. Kay Murdstone was the first immortal to return to the city, and she did not set foot there again until 1908. It was at that time that she wrote the journal passage quoted above.**

**After her return to London, other immortal activity resumed there - as if nothing had ever happened.**

**We here reproduce our one previous clue to the mystery, the fragment of conversation overheard by Connor MacLeod's Watcher (see Chronicle ref. 1888/09/11 7681009 "Whitechapel Trio Fragment"):**

  
**(MacLeod) . . . what word from the Trio?**  
**(Unknown immortal) Siah-sek says Hasan's mortals have a list of possible addresses. Here. (The unknown immortal passes MacLeod several papers.) Look at the map. Siah says she wants you to search the warehouses behind the hospital and be sure to keep an eye out for . . .**  
**(Macleod) What, you mean Siah--**  
**(Unknown immortal) No! Her.**  
**(Undecipherable exchange.)**  
**(MacLeod) She doesn't give me my marching orders! I'll do as I see fit.**  
**(Unknown immortal) You'll do as (undecipherable) says, just like the rest of us.**  
**(Undeciperable exchange.)**  
**(MacLeod) . . . never mind, we'll catch up with the bugger sooner or later, we're already rousted him out of two hiding places - thanks to Hasan's wholesome Limehouse boys and girls. (Spits.)**  
**(Unknown immortal.) I can't stand that Hasan.**  
**(MacLeod) Second that. Wish we could . . .**  
**(The two move out of earshot.)**

  
**It has long been known to us that immortals hunted and probably dispatched the Ripper. But the details were never before known.**

**Now, Jane Doe III has been tentatively identified as Kay Murdstone, a minor immortal whose yen for keeping coded journals was her only mark of note. It has taken almost a hundred years to decipher Murdstone's diaries.**

**This is eyewitness testimony by an immortal in the case: Connor MacLeod was the man who ended Jack the Ripper's mad career. Kay Murdstone - whoever she ultimately was or is - is also Jane Doe III, leader (?) of the Whitechapel Trio; she identified the serial murderer as an insane immortal, evidently her own student; she brought in other immortals, organized a hunt for the Ripper, and when the killer was dead, Jane Doe III then called off the hunt and quitted London - along with every other immortal in the city. Nor did immortals return to London until she gave her permission.**

  
**Who was Jane Doe III, that other immortals obeyed her in this manner?**

 

 

**Following is a list of the Whitechapel immortals:**

  
**Vlad Dobrinski**  
**Jane Doe I**  
**Jane Doe II**  
**Saint-Germain**  
**Andrej Korda**  
**Ekaterini Kyriakos**  
**Connor MacLeod**  
**The Rochia Family**  
**Keith Skinner (later cross-identified as Virgil of Naples)**  
**Previously unlisted female immortal (later identified as Maple White)**  
**The Six of Vinland (first observation by any Watcher)**

   
**And the Whitechapel Trio:**  
**Siah-sek**  
**Hasan-i-Sabah**  
**Jane Doe III / aka Kay Murdstone ?**


	3. The Sheet of Notepaper

 

The Whitechapel Trio affair . . .  
Questions coursed through Marc's mind as he read.  
. . . What was all this nonsense about "immortals"??  
. . . Was this some kind of computer game?  
. . . Or maybe just an inane joke.  
. . . And what was the point, anyway?  
Jane Doe III. The name had definitely caught his imagination. Who was Jane Doe, he wondered.  
He reread the report. He sat with his hand resting on the mousepad, and he drummed his fingers in a Rolling Stones drum-rhythm. This was what Marc always did when he was thinking.  
Then he jumped up.  
Off to the back room he went, and pounced on the shelf of Churchill. He’d found the disc here. There might be more. He overturned every book, found nothing else hidden behind them, opened books at random and found nothing, peered behind them and saw nothing. He looked on the shelf above, he looked on the shelf below. Nothing. Dust and cobwebs, and a lost pen, but nevertheless . . . nothing.  
Then he began taking out the books one by one, turning them upside down and shaking them.  
Ironically, it was in the newest volume of the lot - a 1992 edition titled Winston Churchill - War Correspondent 1895-1900 - shaken out from between pages 128 and 129 - that he found the sheet of notepaper.

 

* * *

 

_**Khartoum Sept 6th 1888---Wish Winnie had been born immortal, he's the only one who gets it right about cavalry charges nowadays. Must talk to Mac about him.** _

 

 

_**if only Darius was still alive!** _

 

  
_**finding K** _   
_**she is elusive, leaves very little track** _   
_**saw her last in Whitechapel late September 1888** _   
_**W.s hv her down as KMurdstone but hvnt connected her wth K** _   
_**chk these in Wtchr database (hack Joe's password fr entry!!):** _   
_~~**Virgil** ~~ _   
_**Maple W.** _   
_**Ekaterini** _   
_**StGermain** _   
_**Rochias children and the Viking kids** _   


 

  
_**spotted her Istanbul 1645, chk refs. to:** _   
_**Nasreddin Hoja** _   
_**Lek Dukaghin --- think K was hunting him!!! the poor bastard** _   
_**Martin of Tours??** _   
_**beheaded Constant, Sophia Bulgaria 2001, over mortal-killing     that stupid rumor** _   
_**Dede** _   


 

  
_**Phone Houdini, ask him where Dede is these days** _   
_**FIND DEDE** _   


 

 

_**Pick up Mac @ airport, flight Ameri 876 7:45 PM** _

 

 

 

 

 

_**mend coat** _


	4. Benjamin Constant

 

 

 

Marc sat looking down at the sheet of paper. With its names: Dede, Benjamin Constant, Martin of Tours. All those recurring names.  
Then he went back to the computer and started checking for them on the disc.  
The first one he found was Constant.

 

* * *

  
**Benjamin Constant**  
**Known aliases : Sir Percival Dwight, Marquis de la Môle, Fra Angelo, Simon Benamou, Zdenek Burian**  
**Notable characteristic : Likes to dress in 19th Century clothes**  
**Date of birth : 1767, Lausanne France**  
**First death : about 1830?, at hands of Germaine de Staël, aka Kristin Gilles**  
**Weapon : Charles III rapier**  
**Recorded beheadings : None**  
**Most recent base of operations : Sophia, Bulgaria**  
**Occupation : Journalist**  
**Watcher : Marilyn Walthrose**  
**Roster of Immortals Status : Deceased**  
**Date : 24 September 2001**  
**Place : Sophia, Bulgaria**  
**Victor : Jane Doe III**  
**Watcher Research, Western Europe**  
**27 September 2001**

  
**On the Education of a Young Immortal:**

  
**Benjamin Constant. Born 1767. His foster father, Juste Constant was a captain in the Dutch army, a large part of which was composed of Swiss troops. Juste was more than eccentric: for example, in 1761, he took a fancy to a nine-year-old girl whom he had met in the neighbourhood of Lusanne. So he abducted her; one day he simply drove up to her village, put her in his carriage, and took her to Holland. All quite openly. The remonstrances of his family and hers were no use. He took complete charge of her welfare, gave her an excellent education, made her his mistress when she was old enough, and eventually fathered two children on her. Along the way, he also picked up a five-year-old pre-immortal and adopted him too, making him his son and heir ... and that was Benjamin.**

  
**He found young Benjamin wandering lost on the streets of Lusanne. Captain Constant doted on the child, but that didn't stop him from passing the boy from one tutor to another like a piece of unwanted luggage. It appears Benjamin's father was a tragic failure at choosing tutors for his son, whose education is as follows:**

  
**1\. First, a German named Stroelin, who alternated between beating the 5-year-old Benjamin up and smothering him with affection. He also taught him Greek. Eventually the family noticed him beating little Benjamin, and tossed him out of the house.**

  
**2\. Age 7: a tutor in Brussels. Monseiur Lagrange. A fanatical atheist. Tried to rape the daughter of Benjamin's music master. Finally took Benjamin to live with him in a bordello. Benjamin's father then arrived in a hurry, and departed with Benjamin in tow.**

  
**3\. Next, the music master. Benjamin was put to board with him. B. was then left entirely alone, and ended up spending his days in a neighbourhood lending library specializing in antireligious tracts and pornography. B. ruined his eyesight for life reading this material.**

  
**4\. Next, an ex-lawyer, Monseiur Gobert of France. M. Gobert was keen on penmanship, and made B. spend an entire year practising it ... by copying out, by hand, a book written by M. Gobert himself. Unfortunately M. Gobert found such fault with his charge's work that B. was required to start over every day, and never got further than the Preface.**

  
**5\. A defrocked monk named Duplessis. Shot himself through the head when B. was thirteen.**

  
**By this time, Benjamin was fluent in Latin, an accomplished pianist, had written an entire tragedy in verse and completed five cantos of a heroic romance. A genius at fourteen. He was in love with an English girl, and had written her a novel. His father sent him to Oxford. He stayed at Oxford two months, and spent 18 months in Holland and Switzerland with yet another tutor. Then he settled down for another 18 months at the University of Erlangen, matriculating. As a matter of style, he thought it proper to keep a mistress. He actually disliked the girl (and she never let him near him, though she apparently said yes to everyone else at the university) but wanted to seem worldly and experienced.**

  
**It worked. The scandal got him thrown out of the university. Benjamin, undeterred, moved to Edinburgh and spent two years there, learning about life.**

**Eventually he racked up such high gambling debts that his father dragged him back away and sent him to Paris.**

  
**That was no good. Benjamin only ran up more debts. His father engaged yet another tutor. Benjamin made the rounds of all the nearby bordellos with the man, paying for them both. Captain Constant descended on Paris, removed his son and sent the boy to Brussels. There, Benjamin had his first affair with a married woman, one Madame Johannot. Hot on her heels came Mrs. Trevor, the wife of an English ambassador. After her was Madame Surin, and then (or perhaps simultaneously) a certain Madame de Charriere, and then there was a scandal concerning a financier's wife, Madame Pourat, and her pretty 16-year-old daughter Jenny.**

  
**Jenny, being an heiress, was the girl Captain Constant himself had chosen for his son's bride. That she was happily engaged to another man meant nothing to either father Constant or son Benjamin. It was while trying to enlist Madame Pourat's help in inducing her daughter to elope with him that Benjamin caused the scandal. It seemed that Madame Pourat had a lover, and this gentleman burst in on them while Benjamin was explaining himself to Mm. Pourat, and then matters became complicated ...**

  
**Benjamin got himself out of this pickle by swallowing half a bottle of straight opium. (A former mistress had given it to him to carry.) This suicide attempt made everyone forgive him and they all became firm friends, but then his father swooped down again and tried to remove him to Hertogenbosch.**

  
**Benjamin rebelled at this final straw, and ran away to London. It was here that he first met other immortals, never knowing what they were. Unwittingly, young Constant seems to have become entangled in the notorious Whitechapel Trio affair, associating with Hasan-i-Sabah, Jane Doe III, and the infamous pirate Siah-Sek, who introduced him to immortal arts of seduction. How he escaped with his head attached (and his first death still to come) will never be known.**

**Eventually, however, after many more such adventures, he became a chamberlain at the court of the Duke of Brunswick, and fell into the clutches of one of the Duchess' ladies-in-waiting. She was desperate to marry, nine years his elder, penniless, ugly as sin and vile-tempered as an ape ... so he promptly fell head-over-heels in love with her, and married her.**

  
**That was in 1789. By 1794, separated from his ugly wife and out, yet again, to live life to its fullest, Benjamin had gone through several more mistresses and settled down - at last! - with the woman who would usher him into immortality. This was Kristin Gilles, aka the fascinating and notorious Madame de Stael, who could make a man fall in love with her by the sheer novelty of her conversation; she killed Constant with her own hands and for the next century he was her slave, for she found him one of the most promising young men she had ever met.**

  
**It’s unfortunate that Constant absorbed his teacher’s callous disregard of mortal lives. By the time they parted and Constant went his own way, he had adopted a pattern of taking and disposing of women as casually as other immortals take heads. When done with them, he killed them. Was it a sort of psychological compensation? Constant’s Watchers documented their immortal’s lifelong avoidance of the Game. He was never observed in battle against another of his own kind. Instead, he killed innocent mortals, his own mistresses, wives, and girlfriends. It was this habit which may have caused his death in 2001.**

 

* * *

 

 

**Closing report, Constant Chronicle:**

  
**… over the past seventeen days, our team has tracked Constant back and forth across the city of Sophia, on and off holy ground, to boltholes and obviously previously-prepared safe rooms we had no idea existed, ever since he received the “letter”. If it had only been an email! In that case, we could have traced and retrieved it. But no. Whatever the document was, Constant burned it immediately after opening the envelope, and then went on the run. He has not stopped in any one place more than three hours since then, nor slept in more than catnaps. We don’t know when he last ate. It’s only through the combined efforts of the impromptu Constant Team - his Watcher Marilyn Walthrose, myself and the three other Watchers currently in Sophia - that we’ve managed to keep up with him.**  
**Then on that last night we finally lost him.**

  
**He was out of our sight for less than an hour. Walthrose then managed to pick him up again in a tourist market near the river; Constant made himself conspicuous by his manner. He appeared to be out of his mind with fear. He was talking aloud and gesturing, but his words made no sense, and then in open sight of no less than sixteen bystanders, he drew his sword.**

  
**He braced it against a brick wall and let himself collapse onto it, effectively slicing off his own head.**

  
**Our team and the other eleven Watchers who came to help were occupied for the next week buying off and/or discrediting the witnesses and hushing up the incident. (Expense account appended with mea culpas: we had no choice.)**

  
**Commendations to Walthrose, a most observant woman, for identifying an unknown immortal on the scene. Walthrose only made the identification because of her encyclopedic memory, for she linked the woman’s face to old Watcher sketches attached to the Whitechapel Incident reports. Of course every English Watcher has made a hobby of trying to find the Three Jane Does.**

  
**It was Jane Doe III who was in the crowd at the marketplace, less than five metres from Constant and in his direct line of sight immediately before his death. She did not speak to or touch Constant. She left the scene before the Quickening could strike her. Walthrose observed this, but did not realize the significance of the woman until two days later, and then used the station database to make a definite identification.**

  
**We have searched the city again as well as we could, but have not made another sighting of Jane Doe III.**

**She has evaded us.**

  
**Walthrose swears she can find her - that she will find her, if she has to scour all Europe to do it. She hated Constant. I don’t know what she intends to do with Jane Doe III if she finds her - stake a claim? Pin a medal on the woman? Just shake her hand? I’m forcing her onto a plane (Walthrose, I mean) and sending her back to HQ in France. She can take a couple of years on research duty, and clear her head. Watchers who feel too much about immortals are dangerous.**

 

  
**Signed, Peter Steelhouse (director, Bulgaria office)**  
**(cross-ref Jack the Ripper, Methos)**

* * *

  
**From: psteelhouse@argusmail.com**   
**To: apierson@argusmail.com**   
**Subject: Jane Doe III**   
**Date: Saturday, Sept 30, 2001 12:23 AM**

  
**Adam? How’s the library life? Sooner or later I’ll get you out in the field and show you how a real Watcher does things, you know. You’ll never look back.**

  
**Listen, I’m forwarding you Benjamin Constant’s Chronicle. We’ve made a Jane Doe III sighting in Sophia. So of course you need to do diligence with the Methos Chronicle, because. Would you forward me the Maple White/Siah-Sek transcriptions? I need to review them.**

**P**

 


	5. Siah-Sek and Maple White

Marc kept clicking. He went next to Siah-Sek and Maple White. He wanted to read the transcription mentioned in that email.

  
**Siah-Sek :**  
**Known aliases : Saiju Sacaria, Siavash Sarlati, Salem Seifeddine, Shaik Sirajuddin**  
**Clan, tribe, cultural affiliation : Turkish**  
**Date of birth : 1367, Anakara, Turkey**  
**First death (?): 1396, Pirate killed boarding a merchant ship**  
**First teacher : unknown**  
**Weapons : Thai machete, poison gas**  
**Recorded beheadings : 351**  
**Last known base of operations : Islamabad, Afghanistan**  
**Occupation : Pirate scourging the Mediterranean sea**  
**Known associates : Xavier St. Cloud and Maple White, both also involved in Whitechapel Trio affair**  
**Watcher : Oshima Kalashi**  
**Roster of Immortals Status : Presumed deceased, victor unknown**  
**Siah-Sek's name means "Black Dog" in Turkish. She first appears in Watcher records in 1396, where she was observed meeting her presumed first death. At the time she was already a full-fledged pirate, and in fact died boarding a vessel on the Black Sea. It is only by chance that a Watcher had taken passage aboard this unlucky ship, and survived to record the emergence of this highly intriguing immortal.**  
**Although Siah-Sek was then Watched and her history recorded diligently by Watchers of proven skill, it was not until she met Benjamin Constant several centuries later (!!) that it became obvious that this old and dangerous immortal was not a man, but a woman!**  
**Evidently, Siah-Sek could not resist Constant's charms. A flaw that would be the downfall of many women both immortal and mortal. Her shocking mesalliance with young Benjamin was the scandal of London society, but it gave the clue to her current Watcher: the pirate was a piratess and always had been so, living her entire career in male disguise and never--well, for hundreds of years--being found out as a woman.**  
**She was a seaman at the time of her first death and a smuggler; an infamous pirate and highwayman in later days, roaming the Mediterranean area and the area of Ankara. Almost to the present day, Siah-Sek was the scourge of merchant ship captains and proprietors of cruising boats.**  
**There have been no Siah-Sek sightings since Whitechapel, and her last recorded telephone contact with Maple White was in 1997. She is now presumed deceased, since MW apparently referred to her death in the pre-fight conversation with Matthew X in Detroit. (See attached document.) I disagree, but on the other hand I have not actually located or laid eye upon my immortal during the thirty-one years of my tenure as Siah-Sek Watcher. So I shall reluctantly close the Chronicle of one of the most swashbuckling women ever born . . .**  
**Oshima Kalashi**  


 

 

  
**Maple White :**  
**Known aliases : Mabel Wyatt, Wendy Marple, Mary Wolf, Miranda White-Mychaels**  
**Date of birth : 1760 AD, London England**  
**First death : 1795 AD, Exploring a mysterious plateau in South America**  
**First teacher : Simon de Miranda**  
**Weapon : Acre sword**  
**Recorded beheadings : 200**  
**Notable kills : Franz Lehar (1924), Xixo (1966), Una Merkel (1989)**  
**Most recent base of operations : Wellington, New-Zealand**  
**Occupation : None**  
**Known associates : Siah-Sek, Kay Murdstone**  
**Past associates : Simon de Miranda, Ramon Suarez Llorca, Sean Burns, Una Merkel,**  
**Watcher : Charles Smith**  
**Roster of Immortals status : Deceased**  
**Date : 30 July 2001**  
**Place : Wellington**  
**Victor : Kenneth**  
**Maple White inspired the fictional character from Arthur Conan Doyle's series, The Challengers, although portrayed as a man. Maple was a scientist and explorer who vanished in South America early May 1795, and re-appeared in Buenos Aires the following year with immortal ranchero, and former conquistador, Simon de Miranda. It is believed Maple became immortal whilst travelling near the Rio de la Plata and was discovered by Simon de Miranda who taught her to use a sword.**  
**The tragic circumstances in which she fought her most notable battles are tales onto themselves :**  
**In 1825, Maple was living in London, married to the Curator of the British Museum, when she met up with American gunfighter Cybelle McWhyrter who was travelling to England and was cruising for a fight and a sword, hers having been broken two days ago while fighting immortal Hucklebery Finn. Cybelle (aka Kellistra) was impressed by the wits of the petite woman whose vitality matched hers. So she offered her a deal : let her live and get her out an unhappy marriage, in exchange for a favor. Maple agreed, pleased at the idea of a quick divorce from her wife-beater of a husband.**  
**K. didn't wait long to ask for Maple's assistance : fifty years later, she was living in London, under another identity, hunting for Jack the Ripper along twenty other immortals in Whitechapel, explaining the presence of Maple there.**  
**Franz Lehar, born in Austria one hundred years ago, was an crazy man, stil living in the past, who never accepted the changes brought by the Industrial Revolution and sought to kill every industrialist living in England. Maple investigated the murders, met up with him and tried to rid him of his madness, but he wouldn't listen. Unwilling to kill him, Maple handed him to the police, but he escaped from his lunatic asylum and murdered three more persons; Maple, feeling responsible for those deaths, put an end to his rampage.**  
**A few months later, Maple wrote a very successful crime novel about a mysterious series of murders in the worlds of industrialist, commited by a man whose family had been killed by pollutants. A novel truly ahead of its time !**  
**In 1966, as western society was about to know some of its biggest changes after the Industrial Revolution, Maple White was taking some holidays in Barcelona, enjoying the sun, sea and company of young Spanish men. She befriended an imortal living there, Ramon Suarez Llorca, former conquistador who had been mentored by Simon de Miranda, Maple's teacher. Lorca had committed many atrocities during the 15th century, killing many Mayans and Aztecs but learnt very different things when becoming immortal, and had felt repentant ever since.**  
**Unfortunately for him, a particular immortal was hot on his trail : Xixo, a survivor of the campaigns led by Pizarro who sought to avenge his people by killing as many descendants of the conquistadores as possible. Maple understood the man's feelings but she couldn't let him kill innocent people, particularly the repentant Ramon. Xixo challenged Ramon with Maple watching, unable to interfere. Xixo won the duel and killed the spaniard, in spite f Ramon's pleas for forgiveness. Maple understood Xixo's motives and decided to leave the place without challenging him, but made him swore to stop the killings.**  
**Once back in London, Maple read in the newpapers that an embassy in Madrid had been bombed, killing twenty-three persons, injuring sixty others. Infuriated, the immortal went back to Spain, tracked Xixo down and challenged him to a fight. Before his head fell, Xixo bravely prayed Popocatepetl the Feathered Snake to accept his soul and forgive him for his crimes.**  
**Una Merkel is an even more tragic story than Xixo's : a victim of immortality, Una's regenerative powers allowed not only every part of her body to regenerate, but also her mind and consciousness; thus she still lived in the past, forever trapped in the hours in which she had been raped and beaten to death in her home of Manchester. She was confused by her environment (the padded cell in which she was locked up) but her mind replayed to her the fourteen hours she had spent from waking on morning up to her death. Once "dead", it would endlessly start back over. She was lucky Maple chose to become a nurse during the eighties, and coincidentally arrived in that hospital. Understanding the torments Una was going through, Maple had her "mysteriously vanish" and took her away.**  
**But Una's madness couldn't be cured, in spite of Sean Burns' help who discovered what was really wrong with the immortal. Maple took on herself to deliver Una from a life of torments and took her head with a swift stroke of her sword.**  
**Two years ago, freshly-settled in New-Zealand with her mortal husband Gary Wells, Maple took in a little boy named Kenny Brody, a lovely blond-haired, doe-eyed child who had "recently been killed during a freak storm and had awaken immortal".**  
**This story was a scam since the creature hiding under the identity of Kenny Brody was none other than Kenneth, the immortal Saxon boy who sought to win the mythical Prize. Fate waited for Kenny to reveal his treacherous, conniving nature, which he did one night when he stabbed Gary in the neck with a fork and took Maple's head.**  
**It is also through Maple that the London Watcher chapterhouse gained possession of the now-decoded Murdstone Journals, found in the White-Wells home when our field operatives searched the house after Maple’s tragic death.**  
**Charles Smith**  
**1 August 2002**  


 

 

 

Hm.

Hmmmm ...

Marc chewed his lip. He still had the Winston Churchill, the book lying beside Pierson's computer. He shook it again: nothing. Then on a whim he checked the dustcover.

And there it was. Another sheet of paper. Not notepaper, this time, but a printout page, torn at one corner and obviously ripped out of a long document of some kind.


	6. The Second Sheet of Paper

 

  
**p 1677                                                                                    document SS111038752311/399 MW9145336/54 transcript 34 (telephone tap)**

**evening light can trick you um you know as you know from experience. I was sure I had the head but he gave me the slip. Got clean away. I’m still blushing. What was I thinking!**   
**SS: (laughs) Duncan MacLeod.**   
**MW: (laughs) And not a bad lay either.**   
**SS: Love the hair.**   
**MW: In any case a friend was traveling with him and I had a word with him afterward. Came round and we talked at Mont Saint-Grace graveyard.**   
**SS: … him? You don’t mean Amanda the bloody thief then.**   
**MW: No, no. I don’t think you know him so I shan’t say. An old friend, one I owe a favor to. That’s why I phoned you. He asked after her.**   
**SS: Amanda?**   
**Pause**   
**SS: Not Amanda?**   
**MW: Not Amanda.**   
**SS: Ahh.**   
**MW: You understand?**   
**SS: I believe I do. That must be a very large favor. Is it the old one? The very, very old one.**   
**Long pause**   
**MW: Oh sweet Jesus.**   
**SS: So it is.**   
**MW: You’ve met?**   
**SS:You’re very brave, very brave indeed. If you talked, you know what she’ll do.**   
**MW: I’m sorry! I won’t say anything to him!**   
**SS: Remember what she did to that pig Constant.**   
**MW: That’s why! Could you get word to her about this? Tell her, tell her I would never breathe a word. She knows I won’t. Never.**   
**SS: Well, I’m not in contact with her and haven’t been for a long time.**   
**Pause**   
**SS:You can send word round by Dede. Be sure you do. You won’t like it if she finds out elsewhere and has to come to you for confirmation. She has hated Methos for almost twenty-two centuries.**

**(end transcript 34)**


	7. Ekaterini

  
Marc resumed clicking randomly from link to link, his mind blank.

 

 

 

  
**Ekaterini Kyriakos**   
**Known aliases : Katina Podromides, Kate the healer, Carola Moreno, Katrina Belinskaya, Katherine Sutherland**   
**Date of birth : 326 BC, Samothrace**   
**First death : 292 BC, Volcanic eruption**   
**First teacher : Methos**   
**Weapon : Medieval broadsword**   
**Recorded beheadings : 5000**   
**Notable kills : Jeffrey Dahmer (1994), Bartolomew, Mario Cardoza (1998)**   
**Most recent base of operations : New-York NY USA**   
**Occupation : Paramedic/Mother**   
**Known associates : Methos, Ceirdwyn, the Whitechapel Trio, Matthew McCormick, Kyra, Kellistra, Haresh Clay, Carter Wellan**   
**Watcher : Michael Scrobalak**   
**Roster of Immortals Status : Active**   


 

  
**She had such fire in her, for over fifteen hundred years.**   
**But I think that when her Nicolas died in 1998, the passion that had kept Katherine Sutherland afire for so long guttered to the barest spark. Ekaterini and Nick Sutherland were very different in personality but at the same time just right for each other : the warrior from Samothrace and the Chicago cop, one full of energy and thirst for battle, the other passionate and collected. Nick, no immortal, longed for stability. Ekaterini loved the sound of battle.**   
**Such a pigheaded child. She deceived herself so well. I did warn her. So did K, I know.**   
**Alas, she traded the father for the son. Nick died within days of his son's birth. And poor Katie . . . her Nick was dead, her world was dead. And yet she found the strength to love the baby, though he must have reminded her of nothing but loss.**   
**The rest of us tried to help - Ceirdwyn was there for the birth and stayed for months after Nick’s death - but to no avail. K also visited, but Katie knows how it is between K and I and won't give me any details of her comings and goings, damn her. Neither will Ceirdwyn.**   
**Katie's been hiding on holy ground ever since, anyway. A strange fate for warlike Ekaterini - skulking in a Californian wicca shrine, mourning her Nick, living in the past. Raising the child as best as she could, yes. And a shrine's a good place for a child to spend his infancy, to be sure. Traditional. But an unhealthy way for Katie - of all the people! - to stick her head in the sand. Too many accidents happen when we have our guard down. Holy ground isn't that safe anymore.**   
**Then bin Laden blew up the the WTC (may the Eurynides chew his entrails for one thousand years!) The tragedy must have hit Katie where she lived. She says she packed a first-aid kit, dug out her paramedic license, got out of her shrine and went on a 12-hour cross-country drive to New York. Couldn't help herself. She spent two weeks at Ground Zero digging, and now she's snapped out of it, good girl - she resettled in New York and got back in the Game.**   
**Adam is now three years old, a beautiful healthy little boy who looks exactly like Nick.**   
**God, I love children.**   
**It amuses me to write this small addendum to the Ekaterini Chronicles. The Watchers will never read it, of course, or know the story they cannot read between the lines. They don't even know there's another story than theirs . . . though some of them may suspect. Never mind. I'll have my little joke and they'll keep getting it wrong - and that, of course, is the way I want it to be.**   
**But I take young Adam's name as a compliment.**   


 

  
**Adam Pierson**   
**11 September 2002**   


 

 

 

  
Adam Pierson?  
This nonsense had been written by M. Pierson?  
And that bogus email from Bulgaria had been to him.  
Marc sat chewing on his lower lip and going over the times he had had converse with M. Pierson, his soi-distant employer. M. Pierson had always appeared to be on the verge of floating away to some cloud somewhere. A dreamy absent-minded look - that was Marc's boss. Little did Marc dream that Pierson made his real money writing computer fantasy games.  
A computer game. Yes, that was it. Come to think, it had striking similiarities to that vampire game, what was its name again: ah yes, 'The Masquerade'.  
Either that, or the man was delusional.  
Marc went on clicking.


	8. The Kurgan

**The Kurgan**   
**Known aliases : Och Ragenko, Yuri Kusigyn, Conrad Roschman, Keith Samples, Victor Krueger**   
**Clan, tribe, cultural affiliations : The Kurgans**   
**Date of birth : 1005 BC, Eastern Russia (Caspian sea borders)**   
**First death : 970 BC, Head crushed with a stone by drunken father**   
**First teacher : Abdul El-Khaddar**   
**Weapon : Custom broadsword**   
**Recorded beheadings : 1472 - Ivan Trotski; 1535 - Khabul Kahn; 1641 - Tak Ne of Alexandria; 1663 - Flavio Parocchi; 1718 - Yung Dol Kim; 1817 - Jeremie Lacroix; 1985 - Stosch Basalok**   
**Most recent base of operation : New-York NY, USA**   
**Occupation : Thief and murderer**   
**Watcher : James Horton**   
**Roster of Immortals Status : Deceased**   
**Date : 8 October 1985**   
**Place : New-York NY**   
**Victor : Connor MacLeod**

**Chronicle :**  
 **Watcher Journal of James Horton**  
 **9 October 1985**  
**The Kurgan's life story can be summarized in one sentence : no love, no friends, no senses of humour (albeit a perverted one).**  
 **The Kurgan lived only for the Game : when he crossed paths with an immortal, the immortal was dead. If the immortal was a woman, she was raped before being beheaded. If the immortal was one of the best fighters ever, he stood only ten minutes in front of the Kurgan's neverending fury. For the Kurgan was only made of fury, hate, lust for battle, thirst for blood.**  
 **Other Watchers will say I am overstating the Kurgan's reputation. I am not. That monster was like a tsunami, like a tornado. Nothing could stop it. Even if I live one century, I will forever remain amazed by the fact that Connor MacLeod managed to take his head in a single blow. After a terrific fight, I must admit.**  
 **(There is also the fact that Connor's mortal girlfriend, pathologist Brenda Wyatt, managed to distract the huge beast long enough to allow MacLeod to gather some strenght after getting his ass handed to him by his adversary). Yes, the Kurgan scared the living hell out of me. Yes, I believe that creature to have been a spawn of Satan, a demon who escaped from the darkest pits of hell. Yes, I hated him for his acts of violence, pillage and rape. Yes, I also hate myself for having been forced to sit down and watch without interfering.**  
 **Connor MacLeod did the world one great favor when he beheaded the Kurgan. He got the mortal and immortal communities rid of a major plague.**  
 **Yet, how many remain living, terrorizing the world ?**  
 **How many like Kenny, Peter Kanis, Xavier St.Cloud, the fabled Horsemen of Apocalypse ?**  
 **How many ?**  
 **Isn't it time we took the matter in our own hands ? To abandon all pretense of non-interfering (what an hypocrisy !) and start culling the immortal population of its more vicious elements ?**  
 **Seriously, can you imagine yourself living in a world ruled by a demented sociopath like the Kurgan used to be ?**


	9. Kay Murdstone (I)

 

 

**Kay Murdstone**  
**Known aliases : Jane Doe III**  
**Date of birth, first death, first teacher, other statistics: unknown**  
**Dates of observation: June 1 1907 through October 26 1911**  
**Weapon : did not appear to carry any**  
**Recorded beheadings : one**  
**Base of operations : Europe (Berlin and Vienna 1907-1908, London 1908, Oslo 1911)**  
**Occupation : unknown, dilettante of art?**  
**Known associates : the Kurgan. Also, see _Whitechapel Trio Report_**  
**Known students : none**  
**Watcher : N. Girard**  
**Roster of Immortals Status : missing**

  
**My immortal, Kay Murdstone, is one of those enigmatic figures we Watchers hate: an immortal first observed standing over a dead body, engulfed by quickening; assigned a Watcher and followed for a brief time, only to vanish from our surveillance forever. Such immortals must be assumed to know about our existence and to be able to evade us at will. Though Kay Murdstone seemed unaware that I was watching her, she must have spotted me the very day I was assigned to her. When she decided to disappear, she did so as if wiped off the map of the earth.**  
**She was first seen by a Watcher on June 1st 1907, when she met the immortal Ernest Mueller at a Berlin nightclub, was challenged by him, fought him barehanded in a nearby alley, and beheaded him with his own sword. Her immortal status was plain and Mueller's Watcher, Adolf Hals, left his immortal's body for later collection and switched to following her. Subsequently, I was given her assignment.**  
**Murdstone appeared to live an ordinary life. Perhaps her only quirk was her complete lack of a sword or other weapon. She neither owned nor carried any.**  
**She kept a series of journals and wrote in them daily. When her journals were filled, she threw them away. We retrieved them, of course, but they were in a cipher none of our researchers could break. They have been preserved by the European Bureau.**  
**Murdstone had only one obvious interest: art.**

**Following is a precis of her travels between 1907 and 1911:**  
**June-September 1907, Berlin: constantly in the company of the artist Edvard Munch. Was employed by Herr Munch as an artist's model and met secretly with him, spending many of her nights with him in various rented rooms. Observed in public argument with him on September 17th, left the next day for Vienna.**  
**It was during this period - barely days before her quarrel with Munch, in fact - that she was seen in company with the Kurgan, a matter still not properly understood. See attached report.**  
**September 1907-October 1908, Vienna: sought out the artist Gustave Klimt, founder of the Vienna Sezession school of painting. Murdstone took a job as a model for various Sezession artists, actively sought out Herr Klimt's company and became his mistress. Popular rumor among the artistic community has her as the model for the devouring female archetype in Klimt's most famous work "The Kiss". Their liason was violently broken off after "The Kiss" was first exhibited.**  
**Herr Klimt made one public remark about the scandal: "The English bitch sucked me dry."**  
**During this period, Murdstone took one trip to Berlin and met again with Herr Munch, who subsequently had a nervous breakdown and retired to Norway.**  
**Remainder of 1908, London: no apparent activity. See Whitechapel Trio report.**  
**Paris, January 3rd 1909 (en route to Norway): was observed in the company of the Kurgan.**  
**1909-1911, Oslo: having quarreled with Herr Klimt, Murdstone went to Norway and returned to the company of Herr Munch, remaining with him for two years. She vanished in the afternoon of October 26th, simply walking out of Herr Munch's lodgings after the noon meal, lost surveillance in the back alleys of Oslo, and was never seen again. I spent the next six months fruitlessly following up dead ends.**  
**During my search, I visited England and attempted to document her legal identity - as a British citizen, born in Canterbury in the year 1877. I found that every record of her existence had been forged. Her entire past was a work of fiction. There was no way to trace her movements previous to June 1907.**  
**My immortal is not to be found. I can do no more than admit defeat and apply for reassignment.**  
**Wherever or whoever she is now, I wish her well.**

  
**N. Girard**  
**May 1929.**

  
**Additional note on the Murdstone Journals: since Girard filed his closing report on his immortal, several other apparently genuine Murdstone Journals have been discovered elsewhere, including the two in the Vatican Bibliotech. Three were in Maple White's possession, found after her death. - James Whyle, 1987.**

  
**(See cross-referenced materials for a detailed report on the Murdstone/Kurgan encounter.)**


	10. Kay Murdstone (II)

 

Marc was now beginning to feel very interested in the mysterious Madame Doe and her many identities.  
So she was also Kay Murdstone, seducer of famous artists. All this and, certainly, no one to be trifled with . . .  
Perhaps she also moonlighted as Carmen Sandiego?

 

 

**_The Kurgan/Murdstone Incident Report_ **

  
**Subject: night of 9 Oktober 1908 (cross-reference Kurgan Chronicle / Kay Murdstone biography).**  
**Report of Thierry de Witt, primary Kurgan Watcher as per mandated rotation. (Note: prior to 1936, the Kurgan's Watcher team was formed by forced assignment of Watcher agents on a two-month rota, this unique arrangement being due to the uniquely violent proclivities of the immortal in question. That is, Watchers universally refused assignment to the Kurgan; the only way to make them shoulder the burden was to share the load among all agents. And even then, they kicked and screamed.)**  


**4:25 PM: relieved Hans Holsen at house adjacent to Thiergarten. Just before quitting surveillance eight hours previously, subject had picked this house out, forced entrance and killed the family within and all servants. The exceptions were two teenage maids and the unmarried daughter of the house. Holsen had (as per my orders) watched house from a safe distance and his subsidiary team had steered all bypassers away from infringing.**

**5:06 PM: Kurgan left house. Appeared to be staggering drunk. I personally walked through house, made the usual body count. Casualties: eleven. All three girls now dead, as expected. (Details sealed except to medical staff.)**

**5:41 PM: left house in Kurgan's wake, caught up with subsidiary team near Spree River. Heard their report. Three casualties on street. Casualty one: fruit seller who asked subject to pay for apple taken from her barrow. Casualties two and three: young married couple caught on wrong side of street. Also, stray cat disemboweled.**

**5:50 PM: subject entered Spree tavern. Sixteen casualties, approximately twenty injured, two seriously maimed and unlikely to recover. Left just before police arrived.**

**6:29 PM: subject wandering randomly through alleys in district near Brandenburg Gate. Robbed three people, all fatally. Killed a carthorse (blow to head, caved in skull) and driver (dropped horse on him). Subsidiary team made bet that tonight's body count would top the Kurgan's standing record. Here I remind the tribunal of that record: January 14 1776, sixty-one innocents killed with bare hands in a peacetime urban setting.**

**7:50 PM: subject appeared to be heading toward more heavily populated area beyond Brandenburg Gate. Gave order for Watcher decoy Elouise Graf to show herself provocatively dressed to subject, divert him away from innocent bystanders.**

**Mademoiselle Graf led the Kurgan back into alleys along Spree River warehouse area, lost him there. No injury to Mlle. Graf, a welcome change as we came close to losing her last week. Please reassign her and send me a new decoy as the Kurgan has now seen her face clearly, and her nerve is close to breaking.**

**8:01 PM: subject discovered overturned beer-cart with hogsheads we had previously planted for him. Took the bait. We dosed the beer liberally with opiates, enough to pacify him for several hours.**

**May I formally request permission from the tribunal to begin poisoning the Kurgan's bait? We could cut his body count in half.**

**I am aware this would be against our Watcher oath. I will take full responsibility. So long as I am press-ganged into watching this monster, I shall do my job as I see fit; if the tribunal disagrees, please feel free to reassign me.**

**You have three times refused my reasonable requests to have my subject beheaded or, at least, to remove one of his feet to slow him down.**

**8:29 PM - 12:00 AM: subject comatose.**

**Midnight: the Kurgan woke and began again to approach Brandenburg area. Mlle. Graf offered to retry decoy ploy, but I refused her and sent her home for the night. Sent Destrang with her, to make sure she doesn't try anything heroic. Personally went onto street and showed self to subject (he was about to accost group of party-goers driving home from theatre) who gave chase when taunted. Lost him three streets over, circled back and rejoined subsidiary team.**

**1:15 AM: despite our best efforts, subject arrived at Brandenburg Gate. Defaced gate, went eastward down Unter den Linden toward Alexanderplatz. Urinated in front of gates of Prinzessinnenpalais, killed guards who objected (a further four casualties). Tried to climb gates but failed.**

**1:57 AM: subject halted, remained frozen for several minutes, then set out in new direction. Moving very quickly and without deviation. Drew sword. Obviously, had sensed another immortal and was hunting, showing the pattern I have observed in him many times before. Dismissed most of subsidiary team and told them to rest for the remainder of the night, as once the Kurgan kills he generally sleeps off the quickening for at least twenty-four hours and is relatively harmless.**

**2:13 AM: subject kicked down doors of Marienkirche, entered church.**

**At this time, we made contact with another Watcher and shared notes: subject was hunting the immortal Kay Murdstone, then resident in Berlin. Offered Kay Murdstone's Watcher my condolences. Sent remaining team to watch other exits of church. I then entered in Kurgan's wake, unobserved.**

**Remained in shadows at back of church. M. Girard (Murdstone's Watcher) entered with me. We observed the Kurgan halfway down nave, hacking pulpit with sword.**

**KURGAN: Show yourself, you coward, or I'll bring the roof down on your head!**

**We then spotted the immortal Kay Murdstone standing near the altar. She is a small woman and appeared unarmed. She did not appear intimidated by my subject.**

**KURGAN: Ah there you are my dear. Now just stand still and . . . (Goes toward her, sheathing sword.)**

**MURDSTONE (does not move).**

**KURGAN (halts): Not running? Oh, yes. Holy ground. Doesn't mean I can't drag you outside and [redacted].**

**(As you know, I decline to report everything the Kurgan says, on the grounds that some things are too vile to write down for posterity. See my remarks above re the tribunal's option to replace me.)**

**MURDSTONE: (speaks in unknown language).**

**KURGAN: Eh? (He lunges at Murdstone.)**

**MURDSTONE (evades Kurgan, goes past him and down nave, Kurgan in pursuit. He is laughing.)**

**KURGAN: Yes, get out of here, I like women who cooperate!**

**MURDSTONE (halts at door of church. Kurgan also halts. She turns to face him.)**

**KURGAN (lunges again, grabs her arm, shoves her down Marienkirche steps and into street. He follows, raising his sword as he goes through door.)**

**(There is a brief scuffle between them. Then they separate, the Kurgan backing away from Murdstone.)**

**KURGAN (the sword drops from his hand): Oh. No. No.**

**MURDSTONE: My darling, you haven't changed a bit.**

**KURGAN: You!**

**MURDSTONE: Now on your knees, my bonny boy, or I'll take you by the ear, march you back to that altar and put you across it, and--**

**KURGAN (drops to his knees.)**

**MURDSTONE: Much better. Now you can look me in the eye. (She walks around him.) I thought I smelled you in Berlin. When did you arrive, day before yesterday? Couldn't you tell I was here?**

**KURGAN: I--**

**MURDSTONE: Slack my darling. You're showing your wear and-- (Touches his neck, trails her finger round it) --tear. You should have felt me. And you know I've told you--**

**KURGAN: I'll--**

**MURDSTONE: Told you not to foul your nest in any city I happen to be living in. My dear. I lost my (untranslatable) a mere twenty years yesterday, and I would hate to (untranslatable) on this anniversary. Which reminds me. You haven't been to London lately, I hope?**

**KURGAN: No!**

**MURDSTONE: I'm glad. At least you managed to retain a little native caution in that addled brain of yours. Now. Get out of Germany. I advise you to head for the wilds of South America or someplace equally remote. And stay there for, oh . . . Let me think. Just how many poor mortals have you shuffled off their coils tonight?**

**KURGAN: (does not answer).**

**MURDSTONE: I know it's been a while, but have you completely forgotten how to count? Never mind. I suppose it's been at least thirty. Stay out of my way for thirty years, child. If I see your sorry face before then, I'll-- (Breaks off. Lifts hands. The Kurgan rises and backs away from her. Murdstone points directly at the Marienkirche door.) Do you remember the Vesuvius thing? I know I'll survive. Will you?**

**(Kurgan retreats down street.)**

**MURDSTONE: Don't forget your sword. (Begins to walk up steps of church.) Madmen like this! They remember their early lessons so well. I wonder, if it did come to a fight, how he'd perform? But it's not all about big muscles and big swords ... It's time I went back to London, said goodbye to my other-- Said farewell to all these mad (untranslatable) of mine. Before Connor manages to behead this one, too.**

**(End of conversation.)**

 

 

 

Oh, this just got worse and worse.  
Marc was totally at sea. He was just about to give up and toss the floppy in the nearest garbage can, when--

 


	11. Amanda Darieux

The bookstore bell dinged and a woman came in.

Marc abandoned the fairy-tales on Pierson’s computer and looked that way with interest, because it was a woman and he was, therefore, interested. And she was dark-haired, and sweet. Ah, she’d make a delicious armful, and the five-centimetre spike heels on those shiny boots only made her more tempting. Round hips, full breasts. There was a swagger and prowl to her walk as she advanced into the store, smiling as her eyes fell on the books. She pushed her dark glasses high on her forehead and trailed her fingertips through Military History, wandered down to Realpolitik and lingered over _The Book of the Lord Sheng_ , and then halted outright in front of Medieval Poetry. He ogled her.

She wore a vinyl backpack like a student tourist fresh from some hospice. Those dark glasses, though, were Ops Extreme—the most expensive in the designer catalogue if Marc was any judge. On the front of her black t-shirt was a scarlet happy face with devil’s horns, with a wicked grin, with raised eyebrows, in flames.

“Bon, bon,” she said casually, in Marc’s direction.

He gave her his most smitten smile. Women liked to know they were liked.

“Could I help you find something? Anything that you want?”

“Mmm,” she purred, “I could go for Aristotle’s _Campaigns of Alexander_ just for the sake of a laugh.”

“I don’t think we have that in our Greek section just now. Perhaps his _Poetics_?”

“I have a copy of the _Poetics_. The annotations annoy me. Got _Lysistrata_?”

“Of course. Over here.”

She sauntered closer. Classic Greek was just to the left of the service desk, which in other more profit-oriented bookstores would be the right place for the rare books, the expensive merchandise; Marc had argued with M. Pierson about this more than once, but Pierson was overfond of Greek in the original. He said he needed it for browsing when he manned the register on dull days. The woman leaned up and looked through the titles, her smile growing. “A nice collection. I’m impressed. Actually I’m not looking for books, all I want is a man …” She turned that smile on Marc; it was a sex smile if he’d ever seen one. “My name’s Amanda Darieux. Is Monseiur Pierson about? I’m a friend.”

“Monseiur Pierson is fortunate, then. But he’s not in today.”

“That’s a pity.”

“May I give him a message from you?” Her address and phone number, if possible. Marc would gladly fondle them and dream.

“Oh, I can come back later.”

She leaned nearer to Marc. Pierson’s absence didn’t seem to give her regrets, and Marc began to recalculate her romantic attachment to his employer … maybe this wasn’t an intrigue. Maybe she was a free woman. No matter what she did or said at this point, in fact, he was ready to lose himself in dreams. A man was king in the privacy of his own head, and could imagine any woman in his harem. This woman was definitely dream-harem material.

“A message for me then?” he ventured, eyes down.

He made his voice very soft and tentative. Not threatening. Not _at all_ threatening. Merely helplessly yearning, he hoped.

She was on the point of answering—with a soft eyes-aside glance of her own—when her gaze happened across the screen of Marc’s computer.

“Oh my my,” she whispered. “Is that a Watcher report?”


	12. Not Amanda Darieux

 

 

 

Marc blinked. Then he put out a hand instinctively, blocking her view of the screen. "Excuse me? That's private--"

She flashed a look at him, shook her head, and fairly crowed with laughter. There were deep laugh-lines round her eyes, a twist to her lips like unwilling self-mockery. She suddenly looked very old.

He snapped off the monitor power-button. The screen went dark. There.

"This is--" he started.

"--blind, pretentious twaddle." Her voice had changed; it was slower, deeper, with an ironic drawl. "Just like so many Watcher reports, my dear. But for the price of a jest I owe you some . . . indulgence, so do forgive me. I'm rude."

"You know what it is! The--those things." He waved a hand at the screen. "Are you a friend of M. Pierson's?"

"No. But we've known one another."

"For a long time?"

"Off and on," purred the woman, and she switched around and seated herself right on the table, at ease on the corner, next to the computer. She even laid an arm along the top of the monitor. She snuck her hand down and punched the power-button, and grinned at Marc when he made an abortive move to stop her. "Oh, don't panic. I know all about this. Are you his Watcher?"

"Eh?"

"Give me your hands."

She took his hands in hers--still perched on the table like a gamine, grinning--and fondled his wrists so his breath came short. Marc was dizzy. When she bent over and pressed a kiss to the life-line of his left palm, he sat plump down in the desk chair and could do nothing but stare.

"Ah, mortals." The woman lifted his chin. "Now, my dear. You're no Watcher. How much do you know about immortals, then?"

"This--gibberish? It's only junk and fairy-tales--a role-playing game of some sort--"

"You think?"

Marc stared at the relit monitor with its gruesome legend of man-killing monsters, things that killed as casually as breathing. "That creature? The 'Kurgan'. Can't be real. Go back, there's nonsense about Jack the Ripper as well. No, no." He shook his head. He even smiled a bit at the audacity of the thought.

"Well, well, well," she said. "So Methos has put my poor Harry in there too."

"Your . . . ?"

"Shh, Horatio." Lifting a finger: "And I shall tell, a tale of vile daemons and such wondernesse of earth, that it'll open up your eyes sure as with Paul on the road to Damascus." She bent down to read the words on the screen. "The Kurgan," she said, "is--was, for he's dead--an immortal being. He was born on the shores of the Hyrcanian Sea several thousand years ago. And like all good princes in the fairytales, he was raised in ignorance of his heritage. Till he was a man grown. And fell under a curse."

"Uh . . . what curse?"

"Eternal death," she said.

"But you just called him immortal!"

"Indeed. He fell on the field of battle, my boy. His skull stove in by a Persian axe. His belly hacked open, gutted. Both legs smashed after dying, where a chariot and its horses bumped over his corpse. Arrows thick in his armor as porcupine-quills, and one eye taken out by a fish-tailed lead shot flung from an enemy's sling. A hero's death . . . That was the curse. He died--and did not decay."

"?"

"Oh, he was nine days healing before he rose, and some of the effects never did quite undo themselves. His head, for instance? I believe the damage was permanent. But worse of all . . ." Marc saw her swallow and a look of sudden pain flashed across her face. It was gone so quickly that he could only blink. "Oh," she whispered, "the gentle mortal world he had known vanished for him that day. All he ever knew after that was our world of endless battle and carnage."

She bent down.

She trailed a fingertip across Marc's throat, dreamy-eyed.

Swallowing, he thought of her expression as she'd lingered in the Military History shelves. His mouth went dry. She was frighteningly close. And the woman breathed against his ear, "He's proof we can live for millennia and never learn a single damned thing."

". . . and you - you're . . ."

"Older than I look, to be sure," drawled the woman who called herself Amanda. "And brimful of surprises. Now . . . you just sit still like a poppet while I look through all this nonsense."

He sat frozen, not even daring to twitch, as she peered into the computer screen and then she laughed and her hand went down and clicked the mouse.

 


	13. Not Amanda, cont'd

 

 

"Look here," said the woman in the bookshop, pleasantly clicking links in Pierson's files. "Well, I'll be . . . the Rochia family! How delightful. Like memory lane. I was there, you know. With them."

Marc blinked at her. "In the eighteenth century, you mean?"

"But of course. What did you think I meant? And the Watchers flatter themselves. Took them almost thirty years to catch up to Mariotta and her sisters--"

"Sisters?"

"Emily and little Juliet, of course." She sighed. "They called Juliet their daughter, but really, that was just their little fib. The most stubborn children! And did you see that?" She was leaning over, jabbing her finger indignantly at a line on the screen. "Not a challenge, not a beheading between the three of them, not to this very day . . . They still aren't carrying swords. I told them how mad they were! They're lying to themselves--thinking they can go through their lives divorced from the Game. Because the immortal world is violent, and we--we immortals--we have to embrace our world. And that means violence."

She tilted her head, seemed to search for the exact phrase she wanted.

"It's all lies," she said. "That's what I mean, really. Because the word of an adult human being--and by that, mortal, I mean one of us--is a creative word. A lie. We immortals are like the sorcerers in your fairy-tales, we shape the world around us. Whatever comes into our minds, we make of our surroundings.

"That's a human trait. But--" and she held up one finger, pinning him with a glance; he felt like a bug on a display card-- "then, we live among human beings. You mortals impose yourselves on your environment . . . and we immortals impose ourselves upon you."

A faint smile. "By violence, mostly," she added.

The thought seemed to give her pleasure.

Marc began to back away from her. How far was enough, before he bolted for the street. She was just a little thing, tiny. If he ran, surely she couldn't outdistance him--

"Don't bother," said the woman.

"B-but what--I wasn't--"

"Yes you were, and if I wasn't sure before, I would be now," she said, and all her teeth showed. "You're not that smart, are you? Never mind. And I'm sure you're asking yourself--" raising her empty hands-- "whether the crazy woman has a gun. But the secret you don't get yet is this--"

Her teeth showed wider.

"I don't need a gun. Not against the likes of you. Stay put, boy. Don't even try."

Marc's feet seemed rooted to the ground.

She hit a key, still smiling faintly. She hadn't even bothered to stand up. "And to illustrate my point . . . Look here: Saint-Germain. No better than the Rochias--all of them, pacifists--the fools! Thinking they can stand aside from the Game. Besides, he was a drunken sot. Absinthe was his downfall. Well, that and trusting his fellow immortals--and I mean Luther here--which brings us right back to the original folly, doesn't it?"

She punched another key.

"Guy le Strange," she said. Her lip curled. "Of course you can always go too far the other way."

Another key. "Ah, and here: Nigniacci, that silly Florentine. And him too . . . though his quickening was . . . tasty."

She touched another link: the name on it was Aletha. There was a picture at the head of the Aletha file, of a woman swathed in heavy layers of stained clothing, sitting on a sidewalk with a bowl of coins in front of her; she was strumming a guitar. "Her spirit, though, I liked. I wonder if any of her Watchers ever noticed her at work? Very unobtrusive, never makes a fuss, but still she bags two heads a year, year in and year out. Without ever leaving her corner, my good girl. She's got the perfect hunting technique, really, best I ever saw ... pick your spot in the busiest city on earth, sit back and let the challengers come to you . . . Oh, and here's a fine old name! My old friend Martin."

Marc said nervously, "Do you know all these people?"

"I knew him, yes." Her tongue slipping over her lips, she glanced up at Marc and away again. Then she touched the computer screen, drawing one finger across it halfway up--at neck level, on the picture of Martin of Tours. "Mm, when what's bad turns out to taste so good--isn't that an ethical predator's dream come true?"

She added, almost to herself: "Of course that's Methos' greatest flaw ... these days, anyway." When she glanced again at Marc, she wore an open grin. "And you ask, who is Methos? You know him as Adam Pierson, I believe. He used to know better once, but his failure now is that he doesn't believe that we--we old ones--are ethical predators and that's all we need to be."

_She's telling me too much_ , Marc thought suddenly.

It was then that he guessed that once she finished playing with him, he was going to die.

He felt chills run down his back, his skin crawling with them. Trying very hard not to signal his utter terror via any betraying facial twitches, he began to sidle toward the cash register and the hidden alarm button set into the shelf underneath . . .

The shop door was the other way. This tactic brought him closer to the computer and the woman herself. But somehow he didn't dare try for the door. Not after what she'd said!

And worse, the way she'd said it.

Meanwhile this unbelievably frightening woman went on nonchalantly flicking through files. She offered a flippant comment on each one.

"Lucius Cornelius Sulla aka Sylla: more good eating here."

Flick.

"Maple White. Her, I liked. But I do tend to get along with women better than with men."

Flick.

"Aurel Stein?"

Something about the name made her pause. She glanced at Marc; her face was a little sad now. Marc froze, four steps closer to the alarm button--four steps closer to where she sat--and tried to stop breathing.

"I lost students and family in Poland," she said quietly. "True that they were stupid enough to get trapped by the Reich, but the concentration camps . . . Well. You know, the Watchers don't guess at half of history and they completely missed most of the important things. There were many of us who helped out during the Second World War. Many who wouldn't dream of meddling in mortal conflicts. And oh yes, I was one."

She leaned over sideways and took a look under the counter. "So that's what you're after," she commented. "Burglar alarm?" And Marc (blank-minded with shock) lunged reflexively toward her.

An eyeblink of motion, and the mouse-cord was looped around Marc's neck. She yanked him sideways, handling him as if he was a child half her size, and he found himself face-down across her knee. "Amanda Darieux" twisted the garotte of connective-cord tighter. He clawed at it, completely failing to get his fingers under the slick rubber coating, and began to choke.

"As for the Nazis ... remember what I said about ethical predators? It wasn't for vengeance's sake that I fought them, believe me. Oh, yes, I did exact my pound of flesh along the way - but that wasn't the point. The point was to help clean humanity's household of vermin."

Starbursts went off behind Marc's eyelids. Then his vision started to fail.

She patted his head. "Hm." Then she reached around and slapped thoughtfully at his shirt pockets. "Got a cigarette on you? I'd like a smoke."


	14. The Second Note

 

Several minutes later, she was lighting a third cigarette from the stub of her second, and Marc was daring to believe he might survive the day. She seemed more relaxed, and had even patted his head. Mostly he concentrated on staying very, very still.

“Ah, I needed that,” she said, taking a long drag. Then: "Is this Pierson's own PC? Let's see what's on the hard drive, I'm getting a little bored with this disc." Tictac went her fingers on the keyboard. "Directory, directory--" After several moments: "Muffin, attend. Do you happen to know his password?"

Marc croaked something.

"Pay attention to me!" she snapped, and Marc found himself wide-eyed and anxious to please her - scared out of his mind, panicked by the sudden bite in her voice. He twisted around, managed to peer at the computer screen. But his eyes watered and the print made no sense.

"Shh, shh," she whispered, bending close to him. "It's all right, muffin. Don't fret yourself so bad . . . We'll find our Methos together. Can you sit up?"

She helped him up.

"There." A pat on his cheek. "That better? Knew you could do it. Now, focus. We have to find Methos, discover what he knows." A smile, directly into Marc's eyes. He cringed. "Now, now. Secret things he saw, hidden ones revealed / knowledge brought of days before the Flood." That came in the tone of a quote; then she chuckled. "Find the copper chest / remove the locks of bronze. / Open the cover to the treasure there. / Take up and read diligently the tablet of lapis lazuli . . ." Another pat. She added, "Of course if you aren't any help, that makes you disposable."

"There was a n-note," said Marc in a strangled gasp. "Hidden in a book--" Desperately, he fished around the desk and came up with the piece of scrap paper he had found in the Churchill volume. "It mentions someone called Mac--"

"Well," she said, reading it. “Dede, hm. And this Mac. MacLeod, presumably. I’ve heard of a Duncan MacLeod. Let’s see.”

Clatter went the keys, as she tried out several attempts at passwords.

"Sorry, kid, no paydirt," she said, and Marc's mind went blank with terror.

He sat trembling, drenched with sweat, and waited to die.

". . . or maybe," she added.

Clatter.

"Eureka!" she said softly. "The password was "Kronos"."

From the street outside came the shwoosh and growl of passing cars, the sudden blurt of a horn protesting at the intersection. The only sound in the bookshop was the soft click of the mouse.

". . . Well, well, well. Is this a note to MacLeod?”

Marc looked.

 

 

  
**Hi, Mac.**

**You're the only one likely to come poking around my hiding place and break into my computer, and you and Joe are the only two curious enough about me to actually read this, so . . . I'm flipping a coin and guessing it's you. Besides anyone else would just dismiss this as nonsense.**

**A book of Italian fairy tales.**

**I still laugh when I think of that. Wonder if the Watchers noticed my Methos Journal has quietly vanished out of their Paris library?**

**Anyway, if you're snooping on this disc, then odds are I've left the country and you're on the lookout for me. Well, quit worrying, Mac! I'm probably fine.**

**If I'm gone, it's because I've found a lead on Kellistra.**

**Yes, I know you've never heard of her. You can ask Joe for her Chronicle, if you want. The whole thing's a pack of lies, though. She's very old - well, very very very old, actually - and doesn't come across as particularly good. In fact, she's bloody dangerous. Not that she's into wholesale slaughter much nowadays, but if you're an immortal you'd better not cross her. She had a unique slant on killing her own kind.**

**Think she hasn't actually killed any mortal since the sixth century, though. Won't do it on moral grounds.**

**I've been looking for her for several months now, sent word out on the grapevine that I wanted to find her, but she's very cautious and her circle won't tell me where she's hiding. She's - well, you'll see.**

**Till then, no fear. We don't play well together - Kellistra and I - but she's not about to take my head. Three guesses why.**

**If I do manage to track her down, I'm going to try to get her to come back to Paris with me, and you can meet her then.**

**Three more guesses why.**

 


	15. A Series of Emails on Methos' Computer

“Now, let’s see if I can break into his email ..."

 

 

  
**From: "Harry H"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Subject: a magician among the spirits**  
**Date: Monday, January 13, 2003 9:20 AM**  
**hello my dear benjamin or whatever you call yourself nowadays**  
**how the hell did you manage to track me down in portugal/ thought i had erased any trail i might have left you know how it is though no matter how well you disappear somebody eventually comes along to better your tricks**  
**well thats life i guess1**  
**suppose that mikhal gaave you this addy damn him**  
**why i ever got this blasted minicomputerthing anyway i cant tell it never does anything but download spam on the account and i never want to get another letter from nigeria as long as i live cant manage the keyboard anyway these stupid little buttons**  
**dont have time for this nonsense111**  
**11 the damn exclamation mark wont work**  
**anyway you want to find dede in order to track down the old lady k okay - dont bother with dede i can give you a lead or two myself**  
**knonw her myself for years**  
**what the hell do you wnt with her anyway eh// maybe you have a soft spot for a pretty face but shes an escapologist any magician could admire and maark my words no man can find her unless she wants him to**  
**or just means to chew him up and spti him out**  
**okay i last saw her in surrey england just last january whilst there on tour with ringling during our regular longdon stopover and i took a side trip for country air met up with the woman at a bedandbreakfast and ended up running for my life i tell you shes not safe stay away from the harridan**  
**eats men for breakfast thats her well i supposr you think youve got the esperience to handle her/**  
**watch out though1**  
**shes not safe**  
**she was going under the name of ursala katz and taking a sketching tour painting**  
**the scenery and i think she meaning to head up the coast into scotland and then the orkneys oh and she said she was ultimately bound for iceland which sounds like her because she dotes on painting those godforsaken places**  
**keep a tight grip on your sword**  
**your dear friend h houdini**  


  
**> Hallo Harry! **  
**> **  
**> How's tricks? Listen, this is me, B. Persson - remember me? From Ravenna. **  
**> Now I know we only had a nodding acquaintance and you didn't let out your **  
**> real identity at the time - we only shared the same church overnight while the **  
**> Kurgan was passing through - but I'm hoping you'll reply to this email. **  
**> **  
**> Don't worry, you're not being outed but I couldn't help noticing at the **  
**> time who **  
**> you were - your face is, after all, well-known. Nor need you fear my **  
**> sword. Bless **  
**> the Internet, it lets us communicate with one another without risk or **  
**> reserve - it's **  
**> like the holy ground of the future, I suppose. **  
**> **  
**> I need to contact a very very old "friend" (if you know what I mean) and **  
**> hoped you could give me a hand. **  
**> **  
**> One of the trails I was following led me to your name, you see. Though it's not **  
**> you I'm looking for; I need to contact a mutual old friend, Ahmet Dede. He knows her **  
**> too, and more intimately than either of us. **  
**> **  
**> The woman I'm looking for is, however, (I think) someone you used to know **  
**> in your youth, when **  
**> you were still learning your trade. (We all know each other, after all.) **  
**> You were traveling with one Dr Grimaldi, and **  
**> she was his assistant, purporting to originate in India - a woman who called herself **  
**> Sita? I don't think, at the time, you knew she was one of us. I know you **  
**> knew her, though, because she mentioned it to various friends, who mentioned it to me.**  
**> **  
**> Anyway, I'm guessing she stuck around long enough to give you a few **  
**> pointers, so **  
**> you might have realized later she was our kind. Believe me that she isn't **  
**> usually **  
**> that forthcoming with her help; she must have been impressed by you. **  
**Stand taller,**  
**> that's quite unlike her (g). **  
**> **  
**> Can you help me? Can you get word to Dede and ask him to get in touch with **  
**> me? Give him this addy and ask him to drop me a line. Or ... and this is **  
**> a stretch ... **  
**> if you've seen your Sita lately, ask her to do the same. **  
**> **  
**> I'm not asking you **  
**> to expose Sita (or Ahmet!) to danger, if that worries you. And believe **  
**> me, both of them **  
**> can handle themselves. **  
**> **  
**> yrs gratefully, B.**  


**\------------------------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Monday, January 20, 2003 12:27 AM**  
**Where the hell are you?**  
**I waited in the airport for almost four hours before I gave up and called a cab!**  
**So help me, if you're lying dead in an alley, I'm going to hunt your ghost down**  
**and take off its head.**  
**Get in touch, will you?**  
**Mac**  


**\------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Monday, January 20, 2003 12:45 PM**  
**Where have you gotten to, Adam? If you get this letter, reply. I'm a little worried here.**  
**MacLeod**  


**\------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Tuesday, January 21, 2003 4:00 PM**  
**Adam,**  
**This isn't funny any more. Damn you, I know you check your mail like clockwork every eight hours.**  
**I expect you to chime in with some dim-witted joke about boy scouts and mother hens within the day.**  
**Worried,**  
**Duncan MacLeod**  


**\--------**

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Wedneday, January 22, 2003 6:11 PM**  
**I'm sending this from your house. Pick up your email, damn you!**  


**\------------**

 

  
**From: Adam Pierson**  
**To: "Mac"**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Quit that bloody boy scout act ...**  
**Date: Wednesday, January 22, 2003 3:35 PM**  
**... I told you not to worry! I'm in the Orkneys now, I've been there since day before yesterday, I'm fine. Just haven't had a moment to check in with you before today. Iceland was a bust, the trail dead cold. Hope you aren't there now looking for me. I was only there for about half a day and then I went with Ahmet Dede - do you know Dede, I ran across him in Reykjavik - he has his own plane, and we're in Algeria.**  
**I really hope you're not in Iceland looking for me.**  
**I met Dede a long time back at the court of the Gothic king Ermanaric. I was going by the name of Widsith then and he called himself Scilling, we worked together. Long story. He's an old friend. (Good hand on a harp, too.) Anyway, he flew me here to Morocco and we're going to rent a car and head for Timbuktoo tomorrow. He thinks that's where K meant to go.**  
**If we can find an internet connection once we get to Timbuktoo I'll get in touch with you there and tell you how things are going.**  
**M.**  


**\---------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: bloody boy scout act indeed**  
**Date: Wednesday, January 22 2003 5:16 PM**  
**Adam,**  
**About time I heard from you. If you don't find her in Africa, where will you head for next?**  
**Keep in closer touch! Mac.**  


**\-----------**

  
**From: Adam Pierson**  
**To: "Mac"**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Quit that bloody boy scout act ...**  
**Date: Saturday, January 26, 2003 1:05 PM**  
**Hi Mac, this is me from Timbuktoo. The weather is lousy. It's wall-to-wall sand here and the visibility on the drive down was nil. And no, she's not around.**  
**She hasn't been here since late August, and I'd give money to know what brought her here to the mouth of hell during the worst of the hot season, but the climate must have put her into a snit, because she took out every immortal in town while she was around. Just beheaded them all in the course of a weekend and then lit out for destinations unknown.**  
**Not that this means more than about three fights, because Timbuktoo's a lot smaller than the last time I went through, but I hope she's feeling more friendly when we catch up to her. We're heading for the south of France now, because Scilling says there's a casino in Cannes she likes to gamble at. Go figure. I'll email you when we arrive.**  
**Scilling says hallo.**  
**Adam**  


**\-------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject:**  
**Date: Monday, January 28, 2003 9:34 AM**  
**I don't think you should be doing this. Mac.**  


**\----------**

 

  
**From: Adam Pierson**  
**To: "Mac"**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: calling from a distant country**  
**Date: Saturday, February 1, 2003 9:23 PM**  
**She's not here, but she was. We're following her to Indonesia. I'd forgotten how fast she can move.**  
**Adam**  


**\-------------**

 

  
**From: "Mac"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Tuesday, February 4, 2003 4:00 PM**  
**Adam? Get in touch!**  
**Duncan**  


**\-----------**

 

  
**From: "SchillingTheMysteryMan"**  
**To: "Mac"**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Nasterfinesay!**  
**Date: Thursday, February 6, 2003 6:52 PM**  
**MacLeod,**  
**This is Scilling, or Ahmet if you like. Good day.**  
**My old friend W. - or Adam, if you like! Damn these multiple identities, they wreck havoc with the memory like a bull in a May-dance - wanted me to write to you and say, all's well. So here I am writing to you. We've parted ways for the nonce: he is in Australia, and I as you find me, in Singapore. If neither of us hit paydirt, expect us both in Paris by the weekend. He's instructed me to show up at a bar called Les Blues with guitar in hand, and expect a welcome for the sake of jazz.**  
**Till then!**  


**\---------**

 

  
**From: Adam Pierson**  
**To: "Mac"**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: Re: hey!**  
**Date: Friday, February 9, 2003 10:00 AM**  
**MacLeod,**  
**I think K. has killed Scilling. I arrived at the Raffles - that's where we arranged to meet - but he's not here, and what's more, he never was here. Never got here. The clerks haven't seen him at all. That's not like him. I think he may be dead.**  
**I can't believe this!**  
**She's known him for centuries, and now this?**  
**He's her friend too. Or was. Damn her. Unless I can find him somewhere in Singapore, the trail's cold - can't follow her without Scilling's help, he knows where she's likely to flit and I don't have a clue - and I'll have to come home. If so, expect me in Paris by Monday.**  
**Don't bother replying to this email, I won't have time to go back online. Too busy searching.**  
**If she's killed him, then she has a bloody lot of explaining to do.**  
**I'm going offline. I'm too angry to do this.**  
**M.**  


**\---------**

 

  
**From: "Kay Seeling"**  
**To: Adam Pierson**  
**Cc:**  
**Subject: A blast from the past**  
**Date: Thursday, February 6, 2003 11:04 PM**  
**Whatever name you're using these days,**  
**Well, darling, I hear from Dede you've been en triste for me. But this is so unlike you! I'm used to being in pursuit, not the pursued. And sweet though it is to be hunted at my age - I don't QUITE think I feel flattered.**  
**Why now, after all these truce years?**  
**Never mind. I now have your address as well as your email addy, after all. And two can play at this little game. Whenever you get home, my dear friend, look for me and my sword to be waiting.**  
**Your loving,**  
**K**


	16. A Sudden Plot Twist

 

Marc hunched himself down, hoping against hope to be forgotten. The woman was staring at the M. Pierson's emails.

At last, as if to herself, she spoke.

"You know what? I heard from my own sources he was nosing around for me, maybe planning to challenge for all anyone knew--and that's an obscenity I can't forgive, that would be breaking all the rules!" A pause. "The oldest rules. He knows them better than I do, he was always so strict about them too. God, how he used to go on about it. Way back when. He mustn't take my head. I mustn't take his. We're . . . forbidden to one another. 'Holy flesh' is the phrase we used to use for it, holy flesh like holy ground: don't use any weapon on holy ground, and never raise your sword against holy flesh. The flesh of those like you. Or else . . ."

She grimaced.

" _Poár v bardak éo vrémja zemletresénija_! A fire in a whorehouse during an earthquake. Utter chaos, God's bad lightning. A disaster beyond our comprehension."

She threw up her hands, suddenly laughing.

"So: no _chingaring_ around with each other. That's the rule. And when I hear that Methos has broken our rule of nineteen hundred years and is suddenly coming for me, naturally I want to find out why."

And she bared her teeth, bent down, grabbed Marc's ear and dragged him up as if he was a puppy, snarling into his face: "So we can straighten this out like ladies and gentlemen: a nice gang of third-party proxies to haul him into a church somewhere and decapitate him, no blood on my hands."

At that moment the shop doorbell chimed. Marc made a squeak. Kellistra dropped him, one hand going into her coat as she turned toward the front of the shop, and her expression told him that whatever hapless customer had just entered was about to--

It was Monseiur Pierson just letting himself in.

Then all hell broke loose.


	17. Fight Scene!

 

 

The woman's hand on the back of Marc's neck suddenly gripped and twisted. He hit the ground. Her feet hit the ground too, one on either side of his shoulders. In stiletto heels. Above him, she turned. The knapsack thunked down right by Marc's ear, and as it did, something silvery, bright, long and deadly ripped out of the vinyl. It was a sword. She had grasped its hilt as she dropped the knapsack, and the blade had torn free, through the fabric, like a razor coming through a veil of silk.

It swung up. And struck M. Pierson's sword as he came straight for her, lunging without a word. There was a flash of sparks, a metallic grating whine, a slide of steel upon steel as blade deflected blade. She slid one foot forward, her sword described a half-circle, and crack went its flat against the guard of the long knife which had suddenly appeared in M. Pierson's free hand. The knife went flying. Marc yelled at the top of his lungs and flattened, wrapping both arms around his head. M. Pierson swore.

" _Sgualdrinaccia!"_

The two of them--the small woman and the tall man--prowled counterclockwise, circling each other in the limited space of the bookshop . . . which was, as all good bookshops ought to be, chockablock with heavy shelves stacked and even double-stacked with books of every size. Only the mad would choose it as an arena.

" _Idí v ópu_ ," answered Kellistra softly. " _Te voy a poner el tolete_."

There was a smile in her voice, but it wasn't a nice one.

M. Pierson stepped back and pointed his sword at her. "Kellistra, you killed Scilling--didn't you?"

"And who did you kill?!" she accused. "Kronos, Silas, Caspian . . . Cassandra told me all about them, you know. You killed other old ones! _Xuj moróvyj_!--how many other rules have you broken, don't you know what happens to those who lay sword to holy flesh--"

"Cassandra's a liar," said M. Pierson coldly. "Kronos, Caspian--another challenger took their heads." He halted, seemed to falter. "And Silas--"

"And Silas?" she demanded. "So she was right!" Her hand raked the air. " _Sto mouni mou_ \--I liked Silas and you killed him! _Didn't you?"_

She went at him like a tigress. Both of them went slam whack into the big freestanding bookcase that held popular paperbacks, after-dinner books for tourists sitting bored in their hotels, marooned in a land of foreign-language TV. The bookcase rocked. The two fighters twisted, M. Pierson gripping the woman's wrist and forcing her sword up and backward; again, they slammed against the shelves. This time the whole thing fell over.

It toppled into the bookcase next to it, carrying that one over too. The sound of books hitting the wooden floor was like gunfire in the enclosed space. And the noise when the massive wooden shelves themselves struck the floor and exploded, was like the wrath of God.

"He had to die," Pierson said. "You weren't there. I'll pay the price."

A twenty-foot bookshelf teetered, teetered, fell. And smashed out the front window of Shakespeare & Co in a shower of broken glass.

"By Heaven's double-bad lightning, you will," she said. "Already have! Why--look at you!" Grimly: "You used to be mayhem on wheels. Wily. Vicious. Tireless." Every word was hammered out with the crash of swords for punctuation. "Wasn't an immortal in the world could stand up to you. When did you lose your fire? You're nothing but a shadow."

The computer desk smashed into matchwood as M. Pierson's sword came down. The chair skidded away as if jet-propelled, hit a file-cabinet and ricocheted. The computer-monitor fell and shattered. Electricity arced, sparks flaring from the broken casing and screen. The secrets of M. Pierson's disc winked out. Gone. The man and woman fought above it.

"As for Dede," Kellistra spat, "kill him? No, you fool. Put a flea in his ear and sent him home to Iceland. How dare you think I killed him?!"

Marc was crawling away from them, through books lying in drifts on the floor. Behind him, a cut electrical cord spat glittering lights. He was trying mindlessly to get under a table when a man's hand hooked beneath his elbow and lifted him effortlessly. Marc twisted around, gasping. "Hush," said a voice, the accent Scottish.

Someone he had never met was gazing down at him.


	18. Grand Finale

 

Marc was crawling away from them, through books lying in drifts on the floor. Behind him, a cut electrical cord spat glittering lights. He was trying mindlessly to get under a table when a man's hand hooked beneath his elbow and lifted him effortlessly. Marc twisted around, gasping. "Hush," said a voice, the accent Scottish.

Someone he had never met was gazing down at him.

He was big, boyish-faced but hard-looking; his shoulders seemed wide as a wrestler's and the thin seaman's sweater he wore couldn't disguise the strapping muscles across his chest and arms. What was more, the steadiness of his eyes contradicted his apparent youth; he looked too confident for his age. And his hand gripped something hidden in the folds of his coat.

Marc said the first thing that popped into his head. "Are you Duncan MacLeod?"

"Yes," said the man. "Are you all right?"

"She's crazy," Marc blurted. "She--she--she threatened to, I was-- Oh God--"

MacLeod was absolutely still for a moment. He wasn’t looking at Marc; he was staring at the fracas, the toppled bookshelves, sheets of paper drifting through the air. The two combatants going at each other with swords beating blade on blade like fury in motion. Their steps crashed and their swords clanged and rang and the sound of their breathing was harsh and loud. MacLeod said, "According to Adam, the chances she would actually hurt a mortal are less than nothing."

"She called him a different name--"

"She . . . shouldn't have said that to you."

"They're going to murder each other!"

"No," said MacLeod. "I think they're just playing, that's all. Because so far, I haven't seen a drop of blood spilled."

Bookshelves thundered to the floor. Books fell in avalanches. Marc cowered, arms over his head. He ought to get under a doorframe, he ought to get down into the cellar—the ceiling would be coming down soon--

MacLeod’s attention was suddenly back on the fighters. "Oh-oh," he said. "Maybe I'm wrong--"

". . . what? What?!"

"Stay right here!" MacLeod ordered. "She's got him down."

As he pushed the boy aside and drew his katana, he turned toward the back of the store. He forgot Marc. Up went his sword, into the en garde. His face was grim.

"You!" he said, making the word thunder. "Kellistra! I'm Duncan MacLeod."

Behind him, more shelves came down. The corner of a falling bookcase hit Marc, and Marc collapsed under an avalanche of dusty hardcovers.

And Kellistra came to meet Mac, sidling, head down and a devilish look upon her--wearing a happy face with wicked eyes, with a twisted smile, dangerous. Her sword swung in lazy circles before her. Her step was unhurried and she didn't even breath hard. "Hi, handsome," she drawled. "Let's talk head."

"Let's not," said MacLeod. "Since I understand it's against our rules."

Kellistra came to a complete stop, seemed to reassess him. "Aww," she said after a moment. "Handsome! It's not fair: you've got to be older than you look." The sword twirled in her grip. "Too bad," she added. "But . . . not quite enough to stop me having my fun. No, no. I've just knocked a wall down on Methos, and I still want to play."

She leaped at him.

Methos, to one side, was just heaving the last of several pieces of masonry off his back. He rose, all dusty, shrugging off bricks and drywall; one step and he staggered. Two or three more, and he collected himself. Okay. He could do this. He began to circle round the side of the shop, moving silently over and around wreckage. As he did, he paused to scoop up something his boot-toe turned over: it was a pack of matches. Kellistra had taken them from Marc and dropped them, earlier; but Methos was not to know that. As it was, he tut-tutted, opened the matchbook-cover and began to light matches, flicking them burning onto the pages of fallen books. In his wake, small fires flared up. They leaped from book to book, spreading, as he circled toward the exit. His eyes never left the fighters.

Kellistra and MacLeod. They were evenly matched. Mac was handicapped, Methos thought, by his innate chivalry and his imperfect understanding of the rules of this game: Kellistra felt free to do whatever she pleased to anyone in her way, so long as no heads rolled. (Ruefully, Methos reached around and rubbed a strained muscle in his shoulder.) Her interpretation of the rules was . . . as creative as his own. In a completely different way.

The worse thing for Mac would be the uncertainty. How could the Highlander keep his balance, without knowing if Kells was fighting . . . or playing?

Just look at her now! She moved as if dancing, sword flicking, unruffled, never flagging. And talking. Talking a mile a minute, lecturing as she fought--while never slowing down a whit.

". . . _surat_ ," she was saying, in the tone of a teacher. "The inner perception of the soul's ears. _Nirat_ : the inner perception of the soul's eyes. These are an immortal's senses, more important than any leftover of mortal life's eyes and ears. With them, we perceive the quickening."

"That's standard Eastern mysticism," MacLeod snapped, parrying. "I've been to India too."

"But did you know the Indian mystics learned the words from immortal teachers? With the _surat_ , we 'hear' other immortals approach. With the _nirat_ , we 'see' God's own lightning leap from our dead bodies." Kellistra lunged. "As we topple, beheaded--the dead rejoining nothingness. Mortals are the more fortunate, you know. Like them, we die and are reborn over and over, bound to the wheel of karma. But we never escape our first bodies. Never ascend. Never for us the final union with God . . ."

"We're not dead! We're just--unlike mortals."

"We are the dead, my lad," said Kellistra calmly. Her sword never paused. "We are animated corpses. Vampires with a hunger for each other. When we die, when the fire flashes out, there's nothing left. Nothing, for us. The end."

"That's not how my teachers put it." Mac was equally calm.

"Oh, young immortals are always so quick to believe the first older one who takes them under her wing. It's such a shame. By the time they're old enough for my lessons, they're much less trusting." She made a face. "But when the last head falls and all our quickening is pooled in the winner of the Game, that one only may gain nirvana. As mortals do."

She darted forward. Heeling around Mac, she stamped down hard on his instep, brought her knee up in a nasty intimate way, while beating his sword down hard. From Mac, a yell. Kellistra laughed. She was past him, spinning, leaving him doubled over and disarmed. Up went her free hand, in a tossing gesture. The katana's hilt smacked into it.

"That is the Prize," she concluded.

"Kellistra." Methos stepped into her line of sight. "Time to leave the sandbox."

Fires were spreading all around them.

Her gaze met his. "It is not enough to dip the magus in the Styx," she quoted, "he must be thrown in and left to sink or swim." Kellistra's lip curled. "What a pretty toy this is." She raised the katana. "Let's see--"

MacLeod moved. He dropped, his leg scything out, and kicked her feet right out from under her. She twisted as she fell, dropping his katana and catching herself on the flat of her hand. With the other hand, she swung her own sword. MacLeod had already rolled. The blade sank into the floorboards of the old building, turned in Kellistra's grip, stuck; he sprang at her. She leaped right under him. And tumbled, somersaulting off one shoulder. As she did, her hand shot out.

It closed on the dropped katana. She rose, swinging the blade. "Methos," she said breathlessly, really smiling for the first time, "I like him, how old is he, anyway?"

MacLeod leaped straight up. He spun in midair, coming down like an acrobat. Kellistra threw herself sideways. MacLeod landed, a three-point landing: balanced on knee and toe and one hand, leaning over to take hold of Kellistra's sword stuck in the floor. He wrenched at it, and it came free.

The whole bookstore was aflame now.

Mac rose, facing Kellistra; the two of them crouched immobile, staring at each other--her eyes alight, his narrow and wary--and Methos, at the door, was the third point of the triangle. Three statues, caught in a frozen moment. Behind Mac and Kellistra, Marc lay unconscious.

Methos said gently, "The mortal boy is about to be crispy-fried."

Both of them reacted instinctively. Both jerked around. Mac reached the spot in a moment, turned and hurled the sword he still held straight at the doorway; Methos ducked, let it swoosh overhead. MacLeod had Marc and was dragging him out from under burning wreckage, pulling him by a grip under the arms. Kellistra, katana between her teeth, bent and caught the boy's ankles. "Go," she said. "Go!"

Twelve steps backwards and MacLeod was outside. The fresh air was clean, cool, very welcome; his lungs felt scorched. He let Marc down gently onto the pavement, straightened, and stopped.

Kellistra was beside him, just reaching to check the mortal's pulse. Methos, sauntering toward them, had his hands in his pockets and was looking over his shoulder as Shakespeare & Co went up in smoke. He seemed to be whistling.

"Seems like you two have something in common," he said to Kellistra.

Kellistra straightened slowly, glaring.

"And by the way, he's just four hundred, plus change," Methos drawled. "So admit that I was right to go looking for you."

"If we didn't have witnesses--!" But she had already hidden the katana away, just as Methos had made his own weapon vanish. Then she punched him straight-armed in the jaw, knocking him flat onto the grimy pavement, and turned away blowing on her knuckles. Over her shoulder she threw the words, "Yes, watch your business go up in flames! It's poetic justice, and I like it, my dear: you lost the fire, the fire shall burn. _Xuj moróvyj_ , it serves you right!"

"Lions fell and savage," said Methos, rubbing his bloody mouth, "serpents with venomous teeth, the very monsters and huge fishes of the sea . . . rather any of them than you, Kells."

"Well harm and mischief to you, then!" she shouted. MacLeod had risen and was looking on in astonishment. Kellistra stormed around; her arm shot out, she caught Mac's ear and wheeled him in a full circle, towing him in her wake down the street. "We'll untangle our swords later, handsome. In private, no? If we agree. But you'd better have more fire in your belly than the old _Svóloc'_ there, or . . ." With an upward jab of her arm. " _Tha sou val klodakhtylo_!"

At the very furthest end of the street she halted, spoke distinctly: "I'll call you, Methos."

The two of them vanished round the corner.

Methos sighed. He looked down at Marc, who had revived and was sitting on the sidewalk with eyes big as teacups; Marc gawked back at him. Presently the mortal spoke in a meek tiny voice. "What just happened?"

"Never you mind," said Methos.

"I'm out of a job, aren't I?"

Methos dug a scrap of paper out of his coat pocket, wrote a number on it and handed it over. "Joe Dawson," he said. "Phone him up, tell him your story. He'll offer you a job with his organization. It's up to you whether you take it, but . . . if you do, you'll learn a little about what happened today."

". . . could you call me an ambulance?"

"I hear a firetruck coming," Methos said. "They'll have somebody."

He left Marc, moseyed off down the street. Behind him, Shakespeare & Co went about the business of burning to the ground, books and all. Methos never looked back. Presently he began to whistle in a melancholy minor tone.

_Probably won't see Mac again for at least six months_ , he thought. _Maybe for years._

He perked up a bit.

_At least it's about bloody time,_ he thought, _he got some little MacLeods for me to play with._

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this on my website as a fun experiment with frames, back when frames were the cutting edge of page design. It had nifty inconspicuous links! The result was a little obscure (I mean the nifty links were a little too inconspicuous, making navigation kinda ... difficult). It's been reformatted to fit the Archive's standards.


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